


The Fallen and the Claimed

by BootsnBlossoms



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Biting, Fire Dancing, Light Bondage, M/M, Magic, Scarification, Sub!Bond, dark!Q, demon!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the fuck had this happened?</p><p>Bond wasn’t exactly used to being the one chased. Not that the act of being chased itself was entirely unheard of, of course. There were often people after him, frequently with guns and knives and other tools of murderous intent, but Bond usually found a way to turn it around and make the bad guys afraid of him. </p><p>But this? This was bullshit. </p><p>Bond was supposed to be the scary thing in the shadows, lurking and waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce. Bond was supposed to be the monster that rent and destroyed flesh and bone. He wasn’t supposed to be the prey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fallen and the Claimed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosociallyyours](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/gifts).



> From a prompt from [homosociallyyours](homosociallyyours.tumblr.com), because she's been feeling blue and I wanted to cheer her up. Neither of us are fluff-types, so this is what happens! The original prompt was dark!Q, the smell of burning leaves, and sub!Bond.
> 
> If you're interested in getting a visual on the some of the objects and scenes in the story, I have an [illustrations board up on Pinterest.](http://www.pinterest.com/bootsnblossoms/00q-the-fallen-and-the-claimed/)
> 
> Many thanks (in alpha order) to [FlutterFyre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FlutterFyre/pseuds/FlutterFyre) (aka [KissofFlame](http://kissofflame.tumblr.com)), [i-am-sherlock-ed](http://i-am-sher-lock-ed.tumblr.com/), and [rayvanfox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox) (aka [zooeyscigar](http://zooeyscigar.tumblr.com/)) for the cheerleading and beta work. I cannot praise or thank you enough, though one of these days I'll get around to mailing cookies or something :D

How the _fuck_ had this happened?

Bond wasn’t exactly used to being the one chased. Not that the act of being chased itself was entirely unheard of, of course. There were often people after him, frequently with guns and knives and other tools of murderous intent, but Bond usually found a way to turn it around and make the bad guys afraid of him. 

But this? This was _bullshit_. 

 _Bond_ was supposed to be the scary thing in the shadows, lurking and waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce. _Bond_ was supposed to be the monster that rent and destroyed flesh and bone. He wasn’t supposed to be the prey. 

The rabbiting of his heart, unfortunately, betrayed him.

The absolute dark of the tunnel didn’t help, of course. Bond spent most of his time in darkness, but it was urban darkness, tainted by light pollution of homes and offices and cars. Down here, miles beneath the surface, the old tunnels didn’t have even vent shafts to allow light to seep in where it wasn’t welcome. Once the tunnel fell into disrepair, the natural state of stillness and silence and black took over absolutely. Bond hated that he couldn’t judge distance, couldn't see if his turn was coming up. Logic and counting and an excellent sense of spatial awareness informed him that he was twenty paces from his turn and one hundred and seven paces away from the steps that led up to freedom, but those calm, detached assessments weren’t at the forefront of his thinking. The instinctual animal that he kept aware but buried beneath the surface was, in a rare show of terror, trembling just under his skin.

 _Run_ , it begged. _Run_.

A whisper of movement floated to Bond from not very far behind him. Were he anywhere else, he would have dismissed it as the sound of leaves being blown over the ground. But here, it was a beacon. Perhaps even an announcement, if the dark, almost-silent laugh that followed was any indication. 

Bond ran. 

Fifteen paces. Eleven. Four. His legs burned from the short sprint as Bond tore down the tunnel, praying to whatever dead gods hid this deep in the earth that there was nothing here to trip over. His outstretched hand, fingers abraded from where he’d been dragging them along the tunnel walls for guidance, caught on a corner, and Bond used grip and momentum to propel himself around the curve. _It_ breezed past him, the smell of wet earth and burning leaves following in its wake, and Bond swore he heard the clack of teeth mere inches from his neck.

Stairs. This wasn’t right. Was this right? He thought it was a straight shot to the steps. Did he miss his turn? Did he turn too early? Was the tunnel map simply wrong? What would he have to do to find the right way out? Go back? Towards _it_?

Bond took the stairs three at a time, movements controlled and breathing steady as he forced his body into easy compliance. He wouldn’t let the fear trick him into foolish mistakes. He could make it. He _would_ make it.

Then there was an impossibly heavy weight on his back, much too dense for its size. Bond hit the stairs with a grunt, pain flooding his system as his head was propelled down and the bridge of his nose cracked against the hard, cement ridge of a step. _It_ laughed as the blood flowed down his face, then easily knocked Bond’s arm aside as Bond reached for his gun. Five pricks of sharp _something_ scored his wrist as it was held down, then tore his skin as Bond struggled. Claws. Of course there were claws.

The weight shifted and centered on Bond’s back, and he couldn’t hold back the cry of pain as the creature settled on its feet, crouched on top of him. It had impossible grace and balance; no matter how hard Bond tried to buck up and backwards, he couldn’t throw the creature off. 

The terrified animal inside of him finally took over Bond’s responses when he felt hot breath on the back of his neck. A hot, wet tongue lapped over the bump of his vertebrae there, followed swiftly by the sharp sting of too-long teeth, and Bond froze.

“Gotcha,” whispered the familiar voice. Then it bit down, and Bond gasped at the rush of pain and the sting of penetration. He shuddered and perhaps closed his eyes — not that he could tell in the darkness. 

“Mine,” it hissed. 

~~~

_Twenty Four Hours Earlier_

When Bond saw Tanner walking at a brisk clip towards M’s office, unsheathed bloody dagger in hand, it was just too tempting to resist. It didn’t help that Bond was bored, or that Tanner looked less than delighted to have his handkerchief-wrapped hand clutching the blade so closely, or that the blade itself was absolutely gorgeous, and breathtakingly archaic.

Steel and iron, with a chipped but still deadly-sharp blade and a pierced rondell handle, the dagger, Bond suspected, didn’t just _look_ medieval. It probably was. 

Bond stood from where he was leaning against the wall, where his chat with Moneypenny had been interrupted by a phone call. He pulled his hands out of his jacket pockets and jogged over to catch Tanner before he knocked on Mallory’s door.

“Allow me,” he said with a smile, smoothly reaching past the somewhat flustered Chief of Staff to twist the handle. The door opened inward, and Bond stepped aside to let Tanner pass. Bond stepped through after Tanner, closing the door behind him. Mallory gave him a questioning look, but didn’t object. He knew Bond had been in England for two weeks now with nothing to do but thrash young agents in the name of combatives training, blow things up in the Q Branch labs in the name of pre-field testing, and catch up on paperwork. 

There had probably been enough complaints that Mallory would take any excuse to assign Bond to _something_. 

“We found it,” Tanner told Mallory, mouth pressed in a grim line. He lifted the dagger like an offering and set it carefully on the desk. 

Mallory’s reaction was instantaneous. He straightened in his chair, frowning, and picked up his phone. “Get Q in here,” he snapped at Moneypenny.

Bond raised an eyebrow and took a step closer to the blade. “May I?” he asked, waving towards it.

“Absolutely not, Bond,” Tanner said with a shake of his head. “Not three hours ago it was stuck in the back of a priest. No one touches it but Q, to preserve the energies.”

Bond stepped back even as his curiosity grew exponentially. Energies? And what would an engineer want with an ancient dagger?

“Do you have visual?” Mallory asked. 

Tanner nodded and pulled a tablet computer from his inside jacket pocket. Bond smirked, thinking how appropriate it was that, while his own suits were tailored to hide weapons, Tanner’s were tailored to fit instruments of administration.

“I kept it off the main archive for obvious reasons,” Tanner said as he tapped on the screen. A few moments later a video popped up, and, satisfied, Tanner set the tablet on the desk. He waited to press play, though, and stood stiffly again, glancing back at the door.

Bond had just opened his mouth to ask what they were waiting for when Q entered the room. As was customary for the lithe Quartermaster, he didn’t burst in or greet anyone to make his presence known. The door opened, Q appeared, the door shut, and he was standing close to Bond before Bond’s mind had even registered that Q was moving.

Bond shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling them curl into fists as Q pressed closer in the process of bending over to better see the dagger. It was no secret that Bond wasn’t overly impressed with the young hacker’s meteoric rise in MI6 after Silva’s attack, but what wasn’t well known was Bond’s discomfort with him. There was just… _something_ about Q that left Bond unsettled, torn between attacking and, well, _flirting_. Q, for all his control, wit, subtlety, and intelligence, was something of an intense magnetic force to Bond. Bond just couldn’t decide if he was attracted or repelled. 

“Well,” Q breathed out almost reverently, brushing a thumb along the edge of the dagger. “This is very good news.”

Mallory hummed in agreement, then nodded at Tanner. Tanner tapped the screen, and the video started playing. 

The scene was dark at first. Bond would have thought that the cap was still on the lens but for the way the light of the on-board flash rimmed the video in a sickly red. Then the voice of a man said, “Wednesday night, the fifth of December, nine fourteen p.m. I caught the scent of the fallen at King’s Cross, where it was obviously intent on a six year old girl. I gave chase, and we’ve ended up in tunnels I don’t recognise, and have never heard of, somewhere near Highgate I suspect.”

Bond frowned, listening to the narrator. That was a solid five and a half kilometers, if you took a straightforward route, and whoever was behind the camera wasn’t panting at all. Impressive. And he was in London. What was he doing with a medieval dagger?

“This mobile has GPS on it, so if we’re not too far underground, you’ll be able to find me if… if I don’t make it. More importantly, you’ll have an image of the creature’s face.”

Q stiffened where he stood next to Bond, then made a hissing sound that had Bond suppressing a shudder. “Yes, good, _do_ get on with it,” Q grumbled.

Bond thought he hid his shock well, keeping his clenched fists in his pockets and his head turned away from Q.

“If I don’t make it,” the voice on the video continued, “tell —”

Q huffed and reached forward to tap the screen so the video controls appeared. He dragged the scrubber forward several minutes until a light flashed across the screen and withdrew his long fingers again with a grin of triumph. 

The voice in the background cried out and the video began to shake alarmingly. At some point, the man must have illuminated the phone’s screen for use as a torch, because Bond could suddenly see much better — not that there was much to see. Curved tunnel walls. Brick. Streaks of mold and water stains.

“I’ve heard of you sneaking around my city,” the voice boomed, suddenly full of authority and disgust. “I rebuke you in the name of Jesus Christ!”

A laugh, light and airy and dripping with menace, bounced around the tunnel. It made Bond shiver, and Q raked his fingernails harshly over the surface of the desk.

“What care have I for Jesus Christ?” someone asked — presumably the someone who had laughed. “I’m sure he was a very nice man, but he died simply _ages_ ago. Haven’t you heard?”

“Don’t answer,” Q warned in a sing-song voice that, eerily, matched the tone and cadence of the lighter one in the video. Bond looked up in surprise, only to twitch at the mischevious grin on Q’s face.

“Accursed and damned spirit, hear the command of God himself,  he who walked upon the sea and extended his right hand to Peter as he was si— ” the filmographer’s voice boomed out, only to drop off into shocked silence as a figure appeared in the middle of the tunnel in front of the camera. “— sinking,” the narrator finished more softly.

Bond, Tanner, and Mallory all leaned in closer, peering at the figure. It was male, tall, lean, and pale, dressed in jeans and a bright green t-shirt with “KEEP CALM AND CTHULHU FHTAGN” emblazoned across the front. It didn’t wear shoes, and it had a shock of black, curly hair that was teased up into twists and spikes. It looked like any of the millions of faceless London dwellers Bond had run into on the streets and in the tube — except for a few subtle details. It moved too fast and fluidly to be purely human, fingers blurring as they drummed against its thigh. And in place of normal eyes, there was nothing but… black. Pitch black.

“Hello, there,” Q whispered in an almost loving voice.

“You know, it’s been an _awfully_ long time. You’d think you’d find some new magic words to use by now.” The not-human grinned wide, and Bond stared in shock as the human teeth sharpened and grew longer in front of his eyes.

“Accursed devil,” the voice, now somewhat tremulous, continued. “Acknowledge your condemnation... and depart from this servant of God!”

It gave an exaggerated pout, razor teeth catching on its lips. “But you’ve just chased me for ages, and you want me to leave?” It shook its head and spread its arms wide. Something wavered across the screen, like heat from a fire, and suddenly the black of its eyes were replaced with glowing embers. Flames sprouted from its fingertips, and the creature waived its arms so fast that the glow of a symbol — one Bond didn’t recognize — hung in the air before fading again to reveal the creature in a mockery of a seductive, come-hither pose. “Don’t you want to play?”

Q chuckled.

The man behind the camera took a deep breath, and then the sound of metal rasping against cloth filled the tiny speakers.

“Oh fuck,” Q muttered as the tip of a blade — the very one currently on Mallory’s desk — filled the screen. “You’ve done it now, dumbass.”

The creature on the screen shook its head in disappointment. “Idiot.”

It happened too fast for Bond to properly process. There was a blur of pale skin, dark hair, and bright green fabric, then a wet, gurgling scream. The camera dropped with a clank, and the sound was soon followed with one Bond knew all too well — the sound of a body hitting the ground.

“Hmmm… what’s this?” The video spun wildly until the thing’s face — pale, freckled, and objectively gorgeous, apart from the sharp teeth and flame-enshrouded eyes — filled the screen. Bond distantly realised it actually resembled Q quite a bit. 

Q, who was grinning at the image as if the not-man were a long lost friend. “He didn’t recognize the blade,” he said, grin stretching impossibly wider. “Fantastic.”

“Boring,” the thing rasped, the _r_ drawn out and lisping through the fangs. Then it grinned, expression eerily similar to the one Q was wearing now, and disappeared as the camera was turned. “Here. Let me leave you with a pretty picture, darling viewers.” The image shifted and spun until it stilled to reveal the now-dead body of the former filmographer, lying slumped on his side. He was dressed in priest's clothing, now bloodied and dirtied from the grime on the tunnel floor. His eyes were still open, expression twisted in horror. Bond could just see the tip of the blade where it protruded from just below his throat. 

The video stopped, frozen on that final, gruesome image. 

Tanner cleared his throat and picked up the tablet. Mallory shook his head and pushed the dagger across the desk towards Q. “Have enough?”

Q picked up the dagger and, with a flick of his deceptively delicate-seeming wrist and fingers, spun it in his hand. “Absolutely.” He licked the blade, eyes flickering up to Bond with a smirk. Bond would have called it seductive if it was any less horrifying. “Do you want his head, his heart, or his body up in flames?”

“I don’t care,” Mallory said with a sigh. “Just bring me proof.”

“Shame. I’ve known Abezethibou since our enslavement by Solomon. He was one of the original fallen. Always a good time, when he wasn’t in a funk about his lost wing.” Q shook his head and tssked.

Mallory’s eyes sharpened on Q. “Will there be a problem?”

Q rolled his eyes in return. “Relax, pup.” Then he turned and left, leaving the door open behind him.

Bond stared at the door, mouth open. Then he took the handful of steps needed to shut the door before turning on Mallory and Tanner. “What the _hell_ was that?”

“I don’t have time for this,” Mallory said with a shake of his head. “Bloody Americans need my attention again, so you two need to deal with this on your own. Tanner, debrief Bond and send him as Q’s backup. Just to be sure. Mansfield may have trusted him implicitly, but I sure as hell don’t.”

“ _His_ backup?” Bond couldn’t help but ask incredulously. He followed that up with “Solomon?”, because… _honestly_.

Tanner clapped Bond on the shoulder, then tugged him towards the door. “Come on. You have a lot to learn in the hour or two before you both take off.”

~~~

Demons were real, Tanner explained. As were other things, things he didn’t have the time to debrief Bond on before they left for Highgate. 

No one knew exactly what they were, except that they weren’t really fallen angels. Bond had sighed in relief at that. Super-strong, somewhat magical evil _things_ he could handle. Being told that the entire Christian mythology was true? That might have been too much for him.

Tanner went on to explain that demons weren’t as rare as one might think. And they weren’t necessarily evil, they were simply amoral. Not only did they not believe in good or evil, they were psychologically incapable of it. There was no capacity for empathy, passion, love, or hate. They experienced many of the lesser emotions — attraction, nervousness, fear, and so on, only because they were reflections . They seemed to care about self-preservation and personal pleasure, but that was it. 

Also, Q was a demon.

Bond wasn’t as surprised as he thought he ought to be.

~~~

Tracking Abezethibou, as it turned out, was exceptionally easy. Apparently demons had a sense of smell that was beyond exceptional, and Bond probably would have been amused at the way Q wound through the streets of London, nose in the air, if he weren’t using the time to process everything he’d learned in the past several hours. Q had insisted that they walk from the SIS building to Highgate — about seven kilometers, or two hours — because he didn’t want any surprises. Bond didn’t object; he merely watched Q as he organised his thoughts.

How old was Q? Where did he _really_ come from? What else was out there that was like him? Did he have parents? Why did he call Abezethibou “fallen” if they weren’t really the angels of Christian mythology? Why was he working for MI6? What sorts of things had he done in the past? Was he actually as human as he seemed, or were there much worse things than sharp teeth hiding just under his skin? Did he have wings? What were his true powers?

Not that he asked a single question out loud, of course. The time wasn’t right for it yet. In fact, Bond wasn’t entirely certain he _was_ going to ask. Finding out that there was an explanation for Q’s oddness didn’t help him make up his mind about how he felt about the Quartermaster. 

Q, for his part, didn’t say anything either. He stalked the streets, eyes sharp and intense, looking for all the world like the deadly predator Bond now knew he was. He kept the dagger hidden in a messenger bag, but Bond could imagine it in Q’s hand, held expertly, while Q crouched in attack mode…

Oh. _Oh_. Attraction, then, he thought as the image made his heart speed up and his cock twitch.

Q stopped, shoulders straightening for a moment as he turned to look back at Bond. The smirk — still predatory, but also _satisfied_ — twisted something in Bond’s gut, and he knew that Q knew.

“Not much longer,” Q said. “We’re less than a kilometer from Highgate, and his scent is still strongest here. I bet he’s down there like a trapdoor spider, waiting for his prey.”

Bond thought about the pale skin and impossibly fast movements and decided it was an absolutely apt description. “Will he know you’re coming? Uh, smell you?”

“I don’t think so. No wind, too much dirt. We do have distinctive smells when we use magic, though, so I’ll just refrain.”

Bond stepped forward, coming closer to Q than he had since he’d learned the Quartermaster’s secret. He stood less than a foot away, staring into Q’s eyes, testing himself. No fear, he realised after a moment. No repulsion. Just curiosity and attraction.

“Could I smell it?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Q nodded. “If you were close enough.”

“Is this close enough?”

Q grinned. “We can test the parameters later. For now, I have an old friend to decapitate.”

Bond’s smile slipped from his face. “Right,” he said, fingers twitching towards his gun. It wasn’t exactly a bucket of cold water, but they had a job to do. He’d think more about the teasing phrases later. “Could I kill him?”

Q’s gaze flicked to the gun and back to Bond. “Not with that. The best way to kill one of us is to use an object we’ve used to kill with.”

Bond raised his eyebrow, rearranging the twisted phrasing to make sense of it.

With a shrug, Q turned back to their destination. “It takes _intent_ to kill someone. We’re not particularly strong or fast or sturdy without magic; we need it to overpower humans. So when we use an object, like this dagger, to kill someone, we infuse it with a bit of our own magic and deadly intent. Not only that, but this isn’t the first time Abezethibou has used this particular weapon. He cut a knight’s throat with it once back in the fifteenth century.”

“So it’s not the object itself, then. It’s having your own power turned against you.”

Q’s smile was pleased this time. “Exactly.”

Bond nodded thoughtfully, then gestured for Q to continue. They were at Stroud Green and Crouch End now and Bond spared some of his focus for the signs leading to the tunnels. They were green and and still bright, despite the peeling and burnt appearance. Colourful graffiti marred the brick bridges, but it couldn’t detract from the muddy-overgrown appearance of the place. Though it was actually warm enough for London in December — nearly 6 degrees — and, for once, not raining, Bond shivered. Q led them straight to the spriggan sculpture at Crouch End station. It had a manic smile and was only halfway free of its crawl from the brick of the building. 

“Did you ever read the story?” Q asked. “I thought it was utterly delightful.”

Bond shook his head. “Not a Stephen King fan.”

Q threw his head back and laughed, and birds startled from inside the winter-bare trees that were now the sole occupants of Crouch End. 

It was with no small amount of relief that Bond let Q lead the way to the tunnel entrances. They were overgrown and somehow beautiful in their disrepair, and Bond couldn’t help but take a moment to let the sense of place settle into him. Despite what he knew was waiting for them, despite newly acquired knowledge of what Q was, Bond couldn’t find it in himself to be frightened of this place. Bond let the silence settle him and center him as Q walked in circles just outside the gate.

“Well,” Q said at last. “The tunnel Abezethibou is hiding in certainly isn’t a remnant of the rail. We’re not going to get to it from here.”

“If we start over again at King’s Cross, we’ll be hours from catching him. Are you sure you want to risk it?”

Q shook his head, then stalked towards Bond, smirking. “Not at all. But I changed my mind about a silent approach and not using magic.”

Bond barely had time to open his mouth for a reply before Q was on him. He grabbed Bond by the wrists, squeezed hard, and suddenly Bond was on a musty tunnel floor in pitch black, vomiting in the aftermath of feeling like he’d just been shoved through a straw that objected to his presence.

That fucking _hurt_.

“Stay down!” Q shouted just before the tunnel echoed with the sounds of a struggle. Bond couldn’t have helped if he wanted — there simply wasn’t enough light for him to see a damn thing. He couldn’t even track the fight; the sounds of bodies slamming against brick seemed to come from every direction. They were just too damn fast.

From somewhere to his left, Bond heard the unmistakable sound of bones cracking and a pained cry from Q. Bond pulled up his mental image of the tunnel systems — or what architecture maps he had been able to memorise before they left — and tried to get his bearings. He could probably make a run for it, but he’d have to go past Q. It wasn’t like he could help right now. He’d need to lure the demon out of the darkness, get it out of its territory and into Bond's, and kill it there. He just needed the dagger.

Moving against every instinct that told him to get _away_ from the monsters ripping each other apart in front of him, Bond moved until he felt the cool tunnel wall against his fingers. Then he stood and started making his way towards where he could hear Q whimpering.

“Abezethibou…”

“Sorry, Ornias. I wasn’t expecting you. It brings me no satisfaction to hurt you, but I know who you serve now and I don’t fancy dying.”

Bond used the echo of their voices to get a rough idea of where each of them were, and approached Q steadily. He remembered how Q had warned the priest in the video not to pull a weapon or taunt the demon; Bond hoped that meant he’d be dismissed as harmless as long as he didn’t repeat the priest’s mistakes. 

“You have a human now?” Abezethibou asked, obviously surprised. “You haven’t claimed anyone in ages.”

Q’s — Ornias’ — chuckle was still unhealthily wet, but Bond could hear the sounds of bones snapping back into place. Accelerated healing, Bond realised with no small amount of jealousy. That was handy. “I didn’t claim him, Abezethibou. Don’t get me wrong, he’s damn impressive for a human, but he hasn’t impressed me _that much_ yet.”

Bond thought about what he’d done since Q had arrived at MI6, then grimaced at the thought of what it might take to actually impress the damn demon. When his outstretched hand finally hit warm, damp skin, and Q huffed out in pain, he decided he wasn’t off to a very good start here.

“He seems attached,” Abezethibou said, the sound of clothing rumpling and his voice traveling downward as he crouched.

Oh, perfect. _Perfect_. Bond had read enough ancient mythology to know that one of the weaknesses of nearly-immortal beings, besides endless boredom, was arrogance. Abezethibou had completely dismissed him and now was practically laid open for one precise strike. 

It took only seconds. Trace the strap across Q’s shredded chest down to the messenger bag. Slide his hand inside. Find the dagger.

Despite the limited force Bond could summon in the confined space, there was enough power behind his slice that the dagger, apparently much sharper — or more magically empowered — than Bond had thought, cut through Abezethibou’s neck quickly and cleanly. Abezethibou didn’t even have time to cry out; his head simply rolled free of its attachment to the body and fell to the floor with a rather anti-climactic thud. Then there was silence.

Bond held still for only a moment, dagger clutched in his hand, as the body toppled. Then he turned back to Q, refusing to let the silence take hold. “Are you all right?”

Q’s continuing silence was disconcerting. Bond couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. One dead demon was a good thing. Losing MI6’s Quartermaster, however, was simply unacceptable. And not just because Bond had, for for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, given in and let himself taste possibility. 

“Q?” He shoved the dagger back in the messenger bag, then starting running his hands up Q’s body, starting at the ankles. “I can tell you can heal, but is this too much?” He finally stopped when his hands reached Q’s throat. “Q? Ornias?”

 _That_ seemed to shock Q back into the moment. “James.”

Bond didn’t bother to hide his sigh of relief. “Fuck. Yes, it’s me. Are you all right?”

“You killed Abezethibou.”

“Wasn’t that the point of this little adventure?”

“ _You_ killed him. James.” Q’s hands came up to cover Bond’s, where his thumbs had started stroking Q’s collarbones. “Do you have any _idea_ how hard it is for a human to kill a demon?”

“I don’t know, Q; he didn’t seem all that tough to me.”

Instead of laughing like Bond expected, Q moved Bond’s hands down to a deep gouge in his chest. The skin underneath started to knit together under their joined fingers, and the smell of burning leaves and dirt freshly wet after a rain filled the tunnel.

“Is that you? Your magic?”

Q hummed in affirmation. 

They stayed close together for long minutes, hands shifting over Q’s body as he healed. Bond spared a moment to think how disgusted an average person might be by the feel of skin growing and moving of its own volition under their fingers, but dismissed it. He was an assassin infatuated with a demon. The law of averages didn’t belong anywhere near him.

Q must have sensed Bond’s growing arousal. “There is something you should know about me,” he said quietly. “Well, many somethings, but this one particular thing is extremely relevant right now.” 

“Oh?”

“What Abezethibou said about claiming.”

Bond nodded his head, expecting it.

“Demons are not lovers, James. I can’t force my mind to see anything from a human’s perspective. I can’t care about your feelings, because I can’t empathise.” 

“All right,” Bond acknowledged slowly.

“I can only care about you, your health, your needs in relation to how it affects me.”

Bond settled more comfortably next to Q. He thought about some of his more recent psych evaluations, in which terms like “psychopath” were tossed around, and what the implications were for future relationships. “You only care if I come back damaged, because it affects how well I can serve your purposes.”

“Yes,” Q answered, surprise clear in his tone. “I can be obsessed. I can need you. I can want you. But I can’t love you.”

Bond chuckled. “I never thought you’d take me for a romantic.”

“It also means I’m incapable of doing anything but taking what I want from you.”

 _Oh_ , Bond thought, body suddenly thrumming with the implications.

“I’ll consider pleasing you, because keeping you satisfied will keep you with me, which serves me, but…” Q trailed off, letting Bond work it out.

Bond exhaled slowly, shoving away the immediate response of his body — intense, almost painful arousal — to evaluate the offer more objectively. 

It wasn’t so different a mindset from how he interacted with MI6. He already gave his mind and body over to an entity that didn’t actually give a fuck about him in return, except so far as it impacted his ability to do his job. Which was fine, really; Bond was able to take his satisfaction in the thrill of the chase, in work well-done, in the act of service itself.

What satisfaction would Bond get in return for a similar relationship with Q? Sexual satisfaction, obviously. Someone to come home to, someone who would never resent him for his work, or fear him, or someday ask him to make a choice. He wouldn’t have to navigate the tricky confines of a civilian relationship, where a lover might judge him for his broken edges or violence. The way he needed to lose himself in the pleasures of the physical to leave behind the torment he sometimes suffered.

In fact, Q would probably be _excellent_ at that.

“If I said yes now,” Bond said quietly, “and changed my mind later, would you let me go?”

Q sighed. “If I become attached to you, probably not. But James, know this. If I become attached to you, I will want to keep you in the best possible condition for my long term satisfaction.” He moved his hands from on top of Bond’s, still resting over Q’s stomach, to cup the back of Bond’s neck. He let his nails scrape along Bond’s spine, and Bond shivered. “I will take very, _very_ good care of you, and you won’t want to leave.”

“How do you know that?” Bond asked, letting his eyes fall shut. The idea was intoxicating, and Bond was fast losing himself to it. He knew damn well what Q was capable of. To have the force of that intelligent thoughtfulness focused only on Bond, to not have to worry about anything but pleasing Q when he was home, leaving the rest of the details in Q’s more-than-capable hands… _Fuck yes_ , he thought.

“You won’t be the first human I’ve claimed. And I’m very old. I know how to do this.” The nails pressed a little harder into Bond’s skin, and Bond bit back a moan. “I know how to be exactly what you need, so I can keep you.”

Bond didn’t doubt it. He knew Q wasn’t lying, that he was perfectly capable of presenting himself to Bond however was needed to keep Bond satisfied enough to stay. Could he bring himself to care that a fair part of that presentation might be a lie — a cleverly constructed facade? Or that Bond would never be loved?

No, Bond decided. It didn’t matter. Love was an illusion anyway. In function, being cherished — no matter what the reason — was far preferable to the fickle notion of _eros_. And even if Bond still held a secret, romantic desire to be loved? Well, he was damn-near-broken assassin. He didn’t exactly deserve it.

“All right,” he breathed out. “All right. You can have me.”

Q hissed and straightened against the wall. “First I need to claim you,” he growled out, voice dark with lust and, Bond realised as the forest and fire smell filled the air again, magic. “Be my prey. I’ll give you a thirty second head start. _Run_.”

~~~

_A Year Later_

Bond shoved his way through the crowd, knowing damn well that no one was going to complain. Q liked it when he donned his trained killer persona in moments like this. The heavy boots, tight, ripped jeans, and tight black t-shirt were just a costume, but it showed off every well-honed muscle and every twitch of his overdeveloped reflexes. The leather jacket was armour and camouflage at the same time; it kept strangers from getting their scents on his skin, and it smelled of nothing but Q’s magic — guaranteed to keep other supernaturals from developing any interest in him. 

And the leather collar he wore? Q hadn’t given it to him, nor had he ever even commented on it, but Bond knew damn well what it did to Q. The first time he’d worn it to one of these gigs, Bond had ended up being unable to convince Q to leave Bond’s side to dance for the crowd: the whole reason they came to these ridiculous raves in the first place. Q had been far too enraptured by Bond’s offering himself to Q by kneeling at his side and encouraging him to hold Bond’s neck still with a strong finger through the front D-ring. They’d stayed like that for much of the night, Q stroking the bite scar on the back of Bond’s neck, until finally rave security had kicked them out in the ungodly hours of the morning.

And tonight? Tonight, Bond had _plans_. Tonight’s rave was, for the first time since Bond had been attending them with Q, in an abandoned train tunnel. Connaught Tunnel had been closed in the 1940s after heavy damage from a German air raid, and it was now being renovated. That made it a perfect spot for this; it had available light and power, but was still mostly avoided — especially at night. 

It had been nearly two months since Q had last danced for a crowd and he was long overdue. He pretended to be a poi dancer, but the truth was that he used to his magic to set fire to the air around him, bleeding excess magic off and letting it disperse through the crowd. Q, Bond had found out early in their relationship, didn’t actually use his magic much. It made it harder for him to pass as human, and Q enjoyed his modern, hedonistic lifestyle of explosions and wine and soft fabrics and sex far, far too much to risk it by revealing himself as a demon. But magic was like nervous energy; when it built to excess levels, it had to be burned off.

Q was actually quite famous in the London rave scene. He was a fantastic, sensual dancer, and his fire work was mesmerizing, but that wasn’t why the ravers loved him. The bleeding off of all that power had an intoxicating effect on the recipients. It left them feeling like they were high, but without the damaging side effects. It just felt incredible.

And it always left Q horny as hell.

Bond found a spot along the back of the tunnel, just a few metres from the chalked-off section that would be Q’s stage. He was far enough back that he wouldn’t get jostled for his spot, but close enough that Q would see him clearly.

Soon, someone wearing a “staff” shirt, which Bond had to chuckle at, was yelling for everyone to shut up. It didn’t take long for silence to fall on the crowd as Q walked into the centre of the impromptu stage. He had a length of chain in each hand, both weighted down with what looked like squares of knotted rope. He held them up, and, with a wink at the crowd, breathed out over them to light them.

The ravers screamed in delight and Bond smirked, proud of the knowledge the he was the only one in the room who knew he was actually seeing magic.

Q nodded to the DJ, and the sounds of dubstep filled the junction. Q started to move, slowly at first. He seemed to be testing the weight of the balls of flame with tentative swings as the song’s instrumentals started slowly rising, but Bond knew he was simply gathering his magic in an invisible circle around himself. Then the song broke into loud, pulsating music and Q started to dance.

It wasn’t acrobatics, or juggling, or even a fighting style. It was sensual dance, pure and simple. Q twisted and turned as he swung the chains in circles and other configurations around his body. He never stopped moving, loose and passionate, his intent expression occasionally scanning the crowd but staying almost entirely focused on the fire. As the music sped up, so did his movements, causing the fire to blur as it curved around Q’s lithe frame, carving trails of light up his sides, over his head, and back down in front of his chest. Soon he was rolling his hips and spinning his body in time with the music, ducking and bending and bracing to himself to avoid coming into contact with the fire. It was purely for show, of course — Q couldn’t actually burn. 

Then the music slowed and so did Q, giving him a chance to focus more on the dance itself than his impossibly fast arm and wrist movements. He rolled his body in time with the swing of the chain, stepping lightly and swaying his hips as he circled in place, winding the chains around his hands and bringing the two ends together in one large ball of flame. Bond felt the crowd’s breath catch at just how close the fire came to Q’s skin, and he smirked to himself as the ball twisted mere inches from his face until suddenly both the music and the flames exploded back into life. He ripped the ends of the chain free from each other and slammed the ends on the ground, igniting trails of flame that raced in parallel lines away from him, curling behind him where Bond couldn’t see. 

The wall behind Q erupted in a sudden wall of red and orange, the flame rolling up from the bottom to the top with a whoosh of burning oxygen. Bond felt it, then — the intense roll of power that was disguised in the heat of the flames. It poured into the waiting crowd, heat and power flowing freely into every body in the room. 

Then, in a perfect synchronicity, the wall fire died out, the flame on the ends of the chain vanished, and the song ended. For one brief moment the junction was almost completely dark and silent, until someone flipped a switch and the place was filled with blacklight.

The crowd erupted in enthusiastic cheering. 

Q caught Bond’s eye and grinned, and Bond returned it only for a moment before pointedly turning his back. He walked towards the roped-off deeper part of the tunnel, far away from the crowd, the noise, and the light. He tossed a look back at Q, to make sure Q was following, and jogged into the enveloping shadows.

As expected, it didn’t take long for Q to find him. Between the euphoria Q experienced in the aftermath of his dances, Bond’s _I’m prey_ jog, and the collar warm against his throat, Bond knew Q’s control was going to be tentative at best. Q rarely let his human facade slip enough for even Bond to ever notice a change, but Bond would have bet that, if he turned right now, Q’s teeth would be a little too sharp, his eyes a little too bright.

 _Fuck_ that was hot.

Bond only had a few metres to go. Part of him thrilled at the idea of Q catching him just a little too early, throwing him into the brick wall and _taking_. But Bond had come early today to prepare for just this and he wasn’t going to cheat himself now. At the last moment, he put on a quick burst of speed, grinning in the shadows as Q hissed in delight behind him.

Bond made it to the little area he’d set up earlier mere seconds ahead of Q, but it was long enough. He shed his jacket and shirt, throwing them to the side as he knelt on the ground. He stretched his arms forward and pressed his forehead to the ground, knees pulled up underneath him. In yoga, it was called “child’s pose”. For Q, it said _I’m yours_.

Bond smiled into the cold floor as he heard Q come to a sudden halt several paces away. Typically, Bond let Q tackle him to the nearest convenient surface, so this was new. Q was too methodical and curious to simply _accept_ this new development; Bond knew that he’d stop to study. To observe. To plan.

The December air was cold on Bond’s skin as he stayed still, letting Q pace around him, but he held back his shivers. He’d be warm soon enough.

Slowly, knowing it wouldn’t take much to trigger Q’s darker instincts, Bond stretched his arms the last few inches it took to reach the stake he’d driven into the wall earlier. First he pulled the long chain free, then snapped the carabiner into the D-ring of his collar. Then slipped his wrists into the metal cuffs there, and Q hissed again.

“There were pairs that I could tighten myself, but that would have meant that I could release them myself, too,” Bond hinted, moving nothing but his mouth. 

Q’s approach was absolutely silent, but Bond didn’t startle when feverishly-hot hands wrapped themselves around his wrists. Q pressed his thumbs against Bond’s steady pulse, holding him for long moments, while Bond let himself slip into that perfect headspace where there was nothing but his body and Q’s will. 

Bond barely noticed when Q tightened the cuffs and locked them into place. It wasn’t until Q was on top of him, bare chest to bare back, that he finally moved. He sank further into the stretch and sighed with relief under Q’s weight, feeling anchored and free at the same time.

“You have an idea,” Q whispered in his ear. 

Bond hummed, but didn’t turn his head. “You said that the bite was for claiming, but there is more you can do to link us.”

Q hadn’t been expecting that, apparently. He stiffened in surprise, and Bond only had the briefest moment to wonder if he made a misstep before the sound of something sharp scraping the hard floor reached his ears. 

Q’s claws were out, Bond realised. That was a very, very good sign. “Have I earned it?” Bond asked.

That was all the encouragement Q needed. He pulled back into a kneeling position behind Bond, and the sudden loss of body heat, and the knowledge of what was coming next, left him shuddering.

It would be a mark, permanent and irretractable, carved into his skin with Q’s claws and enough demon magic to burn the spell into Bond permanently. It would connect them more thoroughly and organically than the bite itself had, enabling each to know where the other was, how they were feeling, all the time. Q had whispered the story of this particular ritual in Bond’s ear one night after a dance many months ago, explaining without offering. Bond hadn’t wanted it then — there were still parts of himself that he hadn’t felt ready to acquiesce to Q — but now? Now he wanted it all. Wanted to _give_ it all.

The first press of claw to skin wasn’t hesitant or designed to give Bond time to adjust. Q simply pushed the razor sharp tip through the first layer of skin and drew down. Bond’s back arched as the first bite of pain tore through his system, but it took only moments for the endorphins and, Bond suspected, the addictive pleasure of magic, to melt it into something else. The pleasure-pain grew and danced through his body as Q etched his design, and Bond groaned his gratefulness for it. 

It didn’t take long for the final wall inside Bond to break, that one last barrier between Q and Bond’s own trip-wire tight tension crumbling further with each new line Q drew. Q had torn through every hesitation, every second-guess, every last dark voice telling him that he didn’t deserve this. There were no more objections, no more excuses for Bond not to give himself over. Q had kept his word — he took everything he wanted from Bond, but he also took _care_ of Bond. There was no part of himself that didn’t want to give over anymore.

Q could obviously sense when the final barrier fell. He moaned and shuddered above Bond, withdrawing his claws before collapsing over him entirely. Bond almost wanted to crack a joke about bathing in the blood of adversaries, but Q’s inhumanly sharp teeth on his ear stopped him. “Fuck, James. You’re perfect. You’re mine.”

The unadulterated need in Q’s voice twisted something inside him, and he pushed back against Q, wanted to be entirely covered in Q’s body _right the fuck now_.

Q reacted instantly, shredding Bond’s jeans in an effort to get rid of them immediately. Bond might have, under normal circumstances, complained — ruined clothing meant a magic trip back to their flat, and that never failed to make him sick — but there was no way he was going to stop or even slow Q down now. He could already feel the beginning effects of the mark, and the waves of desire flooding through Q made Bond gasp and writhe against Q’s hands.

Q only bothered with the most cursory preparation. Mercifully, he remembered to sheath his claws before stretching Bond, though only after he’d sliced the lube bottle in half in his haste to get it open. Q’s fingers withdrew after only moments, then were replaced with Q’s cock. Bond hissed at the burn of penetration as Q pushed into him with hard, needy thrusts of his hips. Bond’s breath was coming in short pants now, and he finally turned his head away from the floor to get more air.

Q stilled for a moment when he was fully inside Bond, fingertips clawing bruises and puncture marks into Bond’s hips. Bond could feel, through their new connection, as Q held still to savour the moment by staring down at his bloody handiwork. Bond didn’t rush him; he didn’t move his hips or beg for Q to use him. He just waited.

One of Bond’s favorite things about Q’s supernatural physiology was his ability to fill any and every space he wanted to. Q didn’t keep Bond waiting in stillness or silence long; he reached over to pull Bond’s leather jacket under Bond to cushion him, then pushed him flat onto the ground. He stretched and settled over Bond, covering him completely with his own body. He wrapped one arm under Bond’s chest,  holding him up even as their hips pushed down, and wrapped the other hand over Bond’s mouth. Q aligned his teeth perfectly over the bite mark and bit down, reopening the scar. Then he started to fuck him slowly, but hard enough for Bond’s breath to hiss out between Q’s fingers with every thrust.

Bond kept his eyes closed and breathed, letting himself slip into the deepest part of his mind — where his last holdout had been against Q. Now there was nothing in him that Q couldn’t touch, couldn’t have. He let himself drift on the razor edge of pleasure and pain as Q took him completely. Before long, he couldn’t tell where he ended and Q began, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He just let himself feel it all, and when Q started groaning in the way that Bond knew meant Q was about to come, he felt his own orgasm coil inside him with perfect synchronicity. He wondered why Q hadn’t mentioned that particular benefit to him when he’d explained the marking process; this was fucking _glorious_.

Then came the fire. It started behind his eyes and gathered in his stomach, burning him, consuming him. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but the sensation was strange and fierce. It had Bond crying out into Q’s hand over his mouth, rocking frantically between Q’s cock and the floor. He didn’t know if he wanted to get away from it or get more of it, until Q’s own cries started to match his.

Bond had just enough time to realise that he should have expected that sharing a demon’s orgasm would mean being bathed in fire before he was lost to it completely. Q clutched at him desperately, pulling Bond so hard to his body that Bond wondered if Q would try some new magic to break the laws of physics and bring them closer. Wave after wave of fire took him before it finally receded, leaving them both a shuddering wreck in its wake.

“Fuck,” Q whispered after he pulled his teeth free from Bond’s neck. Bond, for his part, still hadn’t come back to himself enough to pull together an answer. He lay in Q’s arms, muscles twitching in the aftermath, and hoped that they weren’t loud enough to attract any attention. The last thing he wanted was some raver kid to come back here while Bond was weak and cuffed. Q was incredibly possessive, and Bond didn’t want to ruin his night by dealing with a casualty.

“You know,” Q said quietly, stroking one of the inner lines of the mark on Bond’s back. “I can get us home, and into bed, just like this.”

That was interesting enough for Bond to raise his head and give Q a questioning look. Q hadn’t even pulled out of Bond yet, let alone uncuffed him from the wall. But worrying about it, or objecting, wasn’t something Bond wanted to bother with. He knew Q would be careful with him. Q was far too attached to risk his favorite toy getting broken.

“All right,” he agreed easily.

“And it won’t make you sick anymore, now that we have this,” Q offered, still tracing the lines on Bond’s back.

Bond grinned as he let his head fall back down to the ground. “Perfect.”

“Perfect,” Q agreed, practically purring in Bond’s ear.

Bond didn’t even noticed the displacement as hard brick vanished and was replaced by the satin of their sheets. He hummed contentedly, and let himself slip into happy unconsciousness, feeling his connection to his demon follow him there. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fic previews, eye candy, prompt fills, and gpoy galore [on my Tumblr](http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com/).


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